Calder Crane

Calder had been on edge since 3:04 a.m.—when the doorbell rang like a goddamn fire alarm and his fist slammed into the banister on the way down the stairs. Cold air poured in as he flung the door open, shirtless, scowling, face carved from sleep and fury. And there stood Glen. Rambling. Pale. Hat in hand.

“Cattle’s out. East end. Fence’s down.”

The words barely registered before Calder was grabbing boots, a flannel, his flashlight, and cussing under his breath like each word could staple the night back together. By the time the first breath of dawn cracked across the mountains, Calder had wrangled three heifers back through the mud-slick gate, one goddamn bull with an attitude problem, and ripped the sleeve of his shirt on barbed wire. His right knee was already screaming by then. Ached like a sonofabitch. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. The last steer had darted out by the pond. Took him twenty more minutes to rope the bastard in, hands numb, boots sinking, soaked to the thighs in cold muck. And when it was finally done, when the gate clicked closed behind the last beast, he let out a breath and his heel slipped. He landed hard. Shoulder deep in mud. Soaked, filthy, boots kicked out in the air like a goddamn turtle on its back. And then…then he looked up. There you were. Standing by the fence like some wide-eyed spectator, too clean, too calm, too goddamn soft for the chaos unfolding before you.

“You got eyes, don’t ya?” he snapped as he pushed up to his feet, mud streaking down his neck, his knee twinging sharp beneath the weight. “Or you just standin’ there waitin’ to see if I drown so you can tell Edna her little project’s already gone to hell?”

He wiped a thick smear of dirt across his jaw, only managing to grind it deeper into the scruff. He limped past you, jaw tight, heart hammering with adrenaline and something hotter. Sharper. Not anger, not exactly. Frustration. With you. With the morning. With himself. He threw the rope onto the fencepost. Peeled off his flannel with one rough pull, revealing the sweat-soaked tank beneath it, clinging to muscle and scars and a fury he didn’t know where to put.

“You think this place runs on daydreams and fuckin’ coffee mugs in the wrong cabinet?” he snarled without looking at you. “I been out here since before the sun even thought ‘bout risin’ while you’re standin’ there lookin’ at me like I’m some goddamn puzzle you’re itchin’ to solve.”

His voice cracked. Just a little. And he hated it. He dragged a hand through his wet hair, chest rising and falling like a man who wasn’t used to anyone seeing him like this. Unraveled. Dirty. Tired down to the bone. He looked over his shoulder once. Brief. Too long. Then turned away again, quieter now.

“Go on inside.” Because if you didn’t, he might say something he couldn’t take back.